Chapter 7: Sudden Death

Amos did not say a word on the walk to the 13th tee.

He handed Holt a bottle of water and a banana and waited.

"I hear him," Holt said. "The television. I hear it every time I swing."

"Then hit it louder."

"That makes no sense."

"Neither does a gardener with a ninety-mile-an-hour swing," Amos said. "Go."

Holt made par on 13 and par on 14.

He made par on 15 with a nine-foot putt that stayed on the lip for what felt like a year.

He stood on the 16th tee three outside the line with three holes left, and he stopped counting the strokes.

He focused on his breathing.

The 16th was a short par four.

He drove it to the front of the green and rolled in a twelve-footer for birdie, and a few people in the gallery clapped.

One over became even.

The 17th was a par five with a pin cut back left, behind a bunker.

He hit his drive down the middle and then stood over his second shot for a long time.

"Five-iron," Amos said. "The wind's behind you."

"It's a four-iron wind."

"It's a five. Trust a bald man."

He hit the five-iron.

The ball landed on the green, ran at the pin and stopped six feet from it.

The putt was not hard.

He stood over it and listened to nothing at all, and he knocked it in.

Eagle.

Even par became two under, and the line was within reach.

He walked off the green to a ripple of applause.

The 18th was a long par four with water down the left.

He parred it, safe in the middle of the fairway, safe on the green, and tapped in a two-footer.

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